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If some novelists have an golden period, where they hit the summit consistently, then American novelist John Irving’s lasted through a sequence of several substantial, gratifying books, from his late-seventies breakthrough The World According to Garp to the 1989 release A Prayer for Owen Meany. Such were generous, humorous, big-hearted works, connecting figures he refers to as “outsiders” to cultural themes from feminism to termination.

Since A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been waning returns, except in page length. His last novel, 2022’s His Last Chairlift Novel, was 900 pages in length of subjects Irving had delved into more effectively in earlier works (selective mutism, restricted growth, gender identity), with a lengthy screenplay in the center to extend it – as if extra material were necessary.

So we come to a new Irving with care but still a small glimmer of expectation, which burns hotter when we find out that Queen Esther – a only four hundred thirty-two pages – “goes back to the world of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 book is one of Irving’s top-tier novels, set largely in an institution in the town of St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Larch and his apprentice Homer Wells.

The book is a failure from a author who once gave such joy

In Cider House, Irving wrote about pregnancy termination and acceptance with vibrancy, humor and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a important work because it moved past the themes that were evolving into repetitive patterns in his books: grappling, ursine creatures, Vienna, sex work.

This book begins in the imaginary village of Penacook, New Hampshire in the early 20th century, where the Winslow couple welcome teenage foundling the title character from the orphanage. We are a several generations before the storyline of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch is still identifiable: already dependent on anesthetic, adored by his nurses, beginning every speech with “At St Cloud's...” But his appearance in the book is restricted to these early sections.

The Winslows are concerned about parenting Esther properly: she’s Jewish, and “how could they help a teenage girl of Jewish descent understand her place?” To address that, we move forward to Esther’s adulthood in the twenties era. She will be a member of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will join Haganah, the pro-Zionist armed force whose “purpose was to safeguard Jewish settlements from opposition” and which would eventually form the foundation of the Israel's military.

Such are huge themes to address, but having brought in them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s frustrating that the novel is hardly about St Cloud's and the doctor, it’s still more disheartening that it’s additionally not really concerning the titular figure. For causes that must relate to story mechanics, Esther becomes a surrogate mother for another of the family's children, and bears to a son, the boy, in World War II era – and the majority of this novel is the boy's story.

And now is where Irving’s preoccupations return strongly, both common and distinct. Jimmy goes to – naturally – Vienna; there’s talk of avoiding the Vietnam draft through self-mutilation (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a dog with a meaningful name (the animal, recall Sorrow from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, sex workers, authors and penises (Irving’s passim).

The character is a duller figure than the female lead promised to be, and the secondary figures, such as young people Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s tutor Eissler, are one-dimensional too. There are some nice set pieces – Jimmy deflowering; a brawl where a couple of bullies get beaten with a walking aid and a tire pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has never been a delicate writer, but that is isn't the difficulty. He has consistently repeated his points, telegraphed plot developments and allowed them to accumulate in the audience's thoughts before bringing them to completion in extended, shocking, funny moments. For instance, in Irving’s novels, physical elements tend to be lost: remember the oral part in Garp, the finger in Owen Meany. Those absences reverberate through the plot. In Queen Esther, a key person suffers the loss of an arm – but we merely learn 30 pages later the conclusion.

The protagonist comes back late in the book, but only with a last-minute impression of wrapping things up. We not once discover the complete narrative of her life in Palestine and Israel. This novel is a disappointment from a author who once gave such joy. That’s the downside. The positive note is that Cider House – revisiting it in parallel to this work – still stands up wonderfully, four decades later. So read that in its place: it’s much longer as Queen Esther, but far as great.